Caught in the Narrative

11.12.2008 

Dear Editor,

You know you’re getting old when you start to repeat the same old stories. It’s not because your memory is starting to fade. On the contrary, it’s because your memory is getting too good. You’ve told your stories so many times they’ve become ingrained in your memory.  You can relate to that, can’t you?

Yours,

A Subscriber

12.12.2008

Dear Editor,

I was once selected to be the parliamentary candidate for St Ives. I was fresh out of university at the time and full of energy. I would have won had I not run. But I did run. I got cold feet just days into the election campaign and without notice declared myself unelectable. The locals were very disappointed in me, but they soon got over it. My mother didn’t, though. Not after all that money she’d spent in preparation for the post-election victory party.  

Yours,

A Subscriber 

28.12.2008

Dear Editor,

Have you noticed how newspapers have always got something new to say? There was an article the other week about a woman in London who gave birth to six fully-grown men. I was sceptical at first, if only because the chances of giving birth to six fully-grown men, especially on a bendy bus during peak rush hour, can’t be great. And then there was that feature on page seven about the excesses of human wastefulness. Did you know that nearly ninety percent of people actually put their rubbish in the bin? Disgraceful! And according to the reporter, the problem doesn’t just extend to rotting vegetables. People have the audacity to throw away old nappies, used teabags and mouldy toothbrushes. I couldn’t believe what I was reading. Who would hold on to a toothbrush long enough for it to mould? But there’s no accounting for taste. Personally, I don’t care much for the news. It depresses me.  

Yours,

S (A Subscriber)

2.1.2009

Dear Ed (if I may?),

I once had an article in the paper. Well, the student paper at my old university. ‘DO NOT read on if you’ve got any sense’ – that was my chosen headline. I thought it would have the opposite effect, you know - arouse the curiosity and all that. It did not. Not one person was interested in what I had to say. My best friend didn’t even care.  

‘Why would I want to waste my time reading articles about student protests outside the English Faculty when I could be protesting outside the English Faculty?’ he said.  

Personally, I’d much rather read about radicalism than practise it. I suppose that’s my philosophy in life: Don’t Do – Read. You could call it laziness, but I prefer to think of it more as a kind of voyeurism for the political underachiever.        

Yours,

S

6.3.2009

Dear Ed,

There’s a saying in politics – a week’s a long time. I don’t know what they’re complaining about. In my job an hour is a long time. It’s not that I have a problem with my employer (I prefer the term employer to boss); it’s just that my employer has a problem with me. He thinks I don’t contribute enough to company morale. I am not a team player, apparently. 

‘In this company we have something called collective identity,’ he says.  

‘Do you want me to wear a uniform?’ I ask.  

‘No, I do not want you to wear a uniform,’ he replies. I can see we’re not going to get anywhere.

‘Just participate more,’ he says. ‘Try to be at one with the people around you.’ 

‘I have my own office,’ I reply. ‘There’s nobody else there.’

 ‘Now wait a bloody minute!’ he belts.

We have this conversation quite a lot. It repeats like raw onion. Doesn’t he realise that I have to conserve words, especially in this - I would say ‘difficult economic climate’, but what I really mean to say is era of clichéd verbiage. ‘Save something for a rainy day’ is the current catchphrase of choice; that, and the ‘we’ve got to tighten our belts’ guff. I mean think about it - the reason why we need to tighten our belts is to stop our trousers from falling down. The economy can take care of itself.    

Yours,

S 

9.8.2012

Dear Ed,

I was almost seventeen when I told mother about my big secret (a staggeringly late age in today’s more liberal social circles). She immediately started to cry. I could sense both her unease as I started to speak and the trouble that was to come. But there was no going back. I had to tell her, even if it meant disownment.   

‘Mum,’ I said, ‘I’m thinking of becoming an environmentalist.’  

My poor mother could not bring herself to tell my father the news when he came home from work that evening.  

‘I don’t want to spoil his supper,’ she said. ‘Your father has got enough on his plate without having to listen to your views on the ozone layer.’

As it turned out – and here’s the funny twist – my father was quite a passionate Climate Changer. He’d secretly signed up to the Cleaner Earth Party one day while my mother was waiting patiently in line at the post office, and he attended at least three Chelsea Flower shows in the interim. I, on the other hand, never quite followed my green ambitions through. But I’m still planning to do my bit. Actually, I’m considering giving up the car altogether and becoming a cyclist. It’s all the rage these days. Everybody’s doing it. I just worry that it’s all a bit of a passing trend. If I’m right, then in ten years’ time there’ll be mountains of unwanted safety helmets going off to landfill sites, and local authorities will be inundated with letters from angry environmentalists complaining about bike pollution. I don’t know, maybe I’ll just stick to my car for the time being. To be honest, I’m not sure that I’ve got what it takes to be an environmentalist. I’ve never been to the Lake District, and I’ve got four convictions for unlawful possession of a plastic bag whilst under the influence of apathy. Plus, I still haven’t joined the bag-4-life brigade, but there’s always tomorrow. 

Yours,

S 

14.09.2014

Dear Ed,

The only wedding I have ever attended ended in disaster. The bride and groom seemed like the perfect magazine couple. She had a PhD in Early Modern History, and he had recently been promoted to Executive Director (whatever that means). But for his slightly worrying heart condition and her life-threatening nut allergy they almost seemed indestructible. I remember the look of completeness on the bride’s face as she walked down the aisle. I couldn’t actually see her face, of course, it being concealed by a slightly-too-heavy white-and-gold laced veil, but I could sense her contentment. The church hall – a charming little venue soon to be demolished in order to make way for a new faith school devoted to the teachings of the Christian religion - was full to the brim with crying relatives rejoicing in the sanctity of the momentous occasion and crying friends lamenting the loss of their Sunday lie-ins.  

I remember being particularly impressed by the choice of music. Instead of going for the traditional Wedding March, this forward-thinking couple had chosen the Anniversary Waltz (a little presumptuous I thought, but so much more pleasant on the ear). The mother of the bride – Martha her name was - had micromanaged the whole affair; everything from the flowers to the colour of the bridesmaids’ dresses to the choice of rings. I later discovered that she’d even written the wedding vows, which explained why the bride was promising to obey her mother, love her husband and file for a divorce in the event of his redundancy. The operation, if you may call it that, was a tribute to Martha’s persistence. If it hadn’t been for her, the Jarman family would never have bothered flying back from Spain, and the wedding car wouldn’t have had a driver. Every wedding should have a Martha. Needless to say, no stone had been left unturned. I mean that quite literally. Martha had had the church grounds specially landscaped for the Big Day, complete with no less than three water features, a rockery and half-a-dozen rose beds. Martha had truly surpassed herself.   

Everything was going according to plan. But all of a sudden, without notice, Martha’s Vision (for that was the official name of the wedding) turned cloudy. Just before the rings were about to be exchanged, the bride tripped on her own bridal train causing her to fall on the wooden boards beneath. The first hint of laughter came somewhere from the back row and quickly gained momentum. Within seconds the whole room was in uproar and the bride in tears. The laughter could easily have been forgiven and forgotten and the wedding continued as planned had the groom managed to restrain himself from joining in. The bride hobbled back down the aisle – shoeless and bloodstained – and never returned. I am told that she subsequently joined a nursery (or was it a nunnery?), and is currently working on a book about the downfalls of married life. Martha is still married, though that could all change soon; her husband is a Member of Parliament with a penchant for multiple mortgages.  

Yours,

S

11.12.2019

Dear Ed,

Ever since childhood, I have tried to suppress that desire within me to say what’s really on my mind. Like that time my mother bought me a doll for Christmas.  

‘It’s...remarkable,’ I said. 

‘Do you really think so?’ she inquired.  

So concerned was I not to convey my disappointment that I failed to notice the mischievous little smile on my mother’s face.

‘Yes, mum,’ I lied, ‘it’s...remarkable.’ 

She let me go on for almost ten minutes, feigning admiration for the tartan-clad stuffed toy. 

‘It’s so...lifelike,’ I said. 

I meant that. It reminded me of my Aunty Elsie, and contrary to what most people (my mother included) thought at the time, I personally considered Aunty Elsie to be one of the most unpleasant looking women ever to invade the planet. She had a face that could grate cheese, and her hair resembled an oversized cobweb.  

But I digress. Just as I was about to launch into a sonnet on the beauty of inanimate objects, my mother decided to put me out of my misery.  

‘Ooh, what’s this?’ my mother said, as she handed me a small package wrapped in layers of toilet roll.  

‘Is it a partner for my doll?’ I asked, expecting the worst.  

‘Could be,’ she teased.  

The prospect of having to nurture two dolls was more than I could handle, but I knew that I had to play along – at least I until I was back up in my room with the door bolted shut. As the toilet roll came loose in my hands, my heart began to thump and globules of sweat began to congregate on my brow.  

‘Are you sure you want me to open it now?’ I asked.  

‘Of course I am,’ she replied.  

‘But wouldn’t it be better to wait until Aunty Elsie and the other guests arrive?’

‘Certainly not,’ my mother said. ‘Besides, we’ll be far too busy for presents when they get here.’

My delaying tactics had failed me, and so I began to unravel (the present, I mean).  

When I finally mustered the courage to open my eyes, my fears began to allay. For what I saw was not the miniature form of another doll, but my own image staring back up at me from a silvery cage.  

‘That photograph was taken when you were seven years old,’ my mother said. ‘You looked so happy.’ 

‘What’s so special about that?’ I asked. ‘Doesn’t everyone look happy in photographs?’

‘Maybe,’ my mother said. ‘But that day was particularly special. You’d just broken up for the summer holiday, and you were about to embark on your first ever trip abroad. Do you remember? Only you never went on holiday. You developed a sudden fear of flying and refused to board the aeroplane. You’ve been that way ever since. Every time you get an opportunity, you bottle out at the last minute. That’s why I wanted you to have this photograph; so that you can see for yourself what happiness is like. Next time you get scared, remember that little boy with the big smile and the bright eyes. I know I will.’

I had to hand it to my mother, it was quite the Christmas present; though, to be honest, I think I’d have preferred another doll. 

Later that day, I placed the photograph underneath my bed and forgot all about it. Years later, when I returned home from university and began to clear my things out of the family home, I found it lying in the same place, and it occurred to me that my mother might have had a point. Up until that time I had been scared of taking risks. From now on, I thought, I’m not going to back away. I’m going to follow my dreams – no, even better, I’m going to lead them. And so I did. That very day, I decided that the time had finally come to put my political ambitions into action. With an election on the horizon, I decided to have a shot at becoming the parliamentary candidate for St Ives. My mother was delighted.  

‘Just think what Aunty Elsie will say when she hears that my son is on his way to the House of Commoners!’ she said. 

 ‘Commons,’ I said. 

 ‘That’s what I meant,’ my mother retorted. ‘Do you really think you’ll be selected?’

How can I be sure of that, I thought? But I didn’t want to shatter my mother’s social aspirations, and so I smiled and left the room. As fortune would have it, though, a few months later I was selected to be the parliamentary candidate for St Ives. I would have won had I not run. But I did run. I got cold feet just days into the election campaign and without notice declared myself unelectable. The locals were very disappointed in me, but they soon got over it. My mother didn’t, though. 

Yours,

S